


Shapes on the Wall

by Guede



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Beach Sex, Hate Sex, Insults, Lust, M/M, Rough Sex, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-14 18:55:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18482320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guede/pseuds/Guede
Summary: There’s really only one beach and one summer fling ever.





	Shapes on the Wall

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ in 2010.

Zlatan isn’t really feeling it. He stands on the beach in the blazing sun and digs his toes into the sand. A bit of a breeze is blowing, tickling the back of his neck and chilling his wet trunks against his ass and legs. He’s on vacation.

He isn’t in South Africa. Sweden’s not in South Africa. Well, he doesn’t need all that media circus bullshit anyway, he gets enough of it at Barcelona. Anywhere else, they’d be fine with a double-digit goalscoring output the first year after moving to a new club. And don’t even get him started on how that scrawny-ass Villa’s supposedly coming to town to fix his shit. Anywhere _else_ , they’d notice Zlatan does a fuck of a lot more than just tippy-tap the ball into the goal once in a while.

He’s not feeling it. Fucking hot, Zlatan mumbles in his mouth, words not really making it past his lips as he squints up at the sun. He runs his nails over the back of his neck, then turns his heel in the sand and walks up the beach. He’s by himself at the moment—aside from the zillion fellow tourists swimming and building sand-castles and tanning around him—everybody else having realized long before him that he’s in a fucking bad mood. It might be nice to talk to somebody.

No. Not really. A dip in the sea didn’t help much either, water lukewarm and gentle and just pissing him off even more. He gets to a line of bleached wooden stalls for changing and starts to jog around them. Maybe he’ll go to a park and play kickabout, remind himself he does like the game part of it. Maybe he’ll get something to eat. Maybe he’ll punch somebody in the face.

There are less people on the boardwalk. It’s the high, hot part of the day and people don’t want to walk when they could be sprawled out inside under the A/C or splashing water at each other down by the ocean. Zlatan stops on the planks, wincing slightly at their heat. He stares at his hotel.

He turns around. His hair is sticking to the back of his neck again and he flicks it off with a finger, chewing on his lip and looking around. The parking lot’s not that far off. He could take his rental and just…drive somewhere. Just drive.

A woman’s pretty, giggling laugh breaks Zlatan’s reverie. Irritated, he glances around and spots a group ambling down the boardwalk. Bunch of young kids, younger than him, legs coltishly long and lean. Mixed men and women. Heading straight for him. He thinks about getting out of the way, idly shifting his weight. The planks keep trying to burn his feet. To be honest, he doesn’t really want to just fuck off either. He’s old enough now to know you can’t really do that, not when you’ve got grumpy bastard sportswriters just waiting for an excuse—in _Italy_ , in Spain they don’t even wait—not without getting even more shit your way. It’s just that fucking off seems less likely to piss him off than doing anything else right now.

He stays where he is. The group gets closer, close enough for him to grin at some of their clothes. He’s seen some fucking weird ideas about fashion in Milan, but these are just…well, he shakes his head and grins, turning away.

“What?” somebody asks him in Italian.

Zlatan’s startled enough, after days and days of English and Swedish and Bosnian, to turn back. One of the boys is staring at him, chin up, half an eye on a nearby girl. Half a head shorter than Zlatan. “What?” Zlatan says back, still grinning. “What the fuck are you doing? Don’t you have some sand-pies to make down at the beach?”

The boy’s jaw tightens. He brings up a fist and takes one step forward, only to have his friend throw an arm out in front of him and shove him back. His friend’s half-turned towards him, shushing him, telling him to just keep moving, and the boy’s talking shit about Zlatan’s accent, Zlatan’s appearance, Zlatan’s probable parentage and heritage and all that. Hurrah for enlightened Europe.

“Fucking cheating Italians,” Zlatan says loudly, in English. He takes an exaggerated step around the group, then another towards a ramp off the boardwalk.

“Let him go,” the friend snaps. He jerks the puppy asshole aside and Zlatan gets a look at his face, finally. It’s Paolo Maldini.

No, it’s not. Zlatan doesn’t really follow Serie A that much these days but he’s pretty sure Maldini hasn’t cropped the sides of his head so he’s just got this curly pouf on top, like some rooster. And he knows Maldini doesn’t look like that now, doesn’t have the concave cheeks and pursed-pout lips, like some boytoy waiting for a cock. But the lines of the face are in there, the regal attitude, only that’s coming off almost as stuck-up as his friend’s bravado. The smooth way he pivots too, Zlatan’s seen that plenty of times on the field. Different, though. More quick, less study. 

Maldini stares at Zlatan. It says _don’t get into this_ and _I know he’s a moron_ , and also _get into it and I’ll kill you_. “Sorry,” Maldini says. “He shouldn’t have said that. We’re going now, all right?”

“I guess,” Zlatan says after a moment. His head’s still not into it. He should be thinking _this is fucking weird_ and _wait that back there looks wrong, the water’s not that shade of blue_ but he’s not. Not really. He’s just sort of angry. Fucking can’t even storm off these days without it going pear-shaped on him. “I mean, I’m not your daddy or anything.” He watches Maldini try to take that. He’s never seen Maldini have to work at not being irked. It’s weird. “Cesare know you’re out with your friends?”

“What an ass,” says one of the women. “Paolo, come on.”

For a moment Maldini doesn’t. He wants to sock Zlatan in the face and _Jesus_ , that’s funny and bizarre and cool.

Then he turns around. His back is stiff but he lifts his head like he’s already king of Milan, and ushers off the group.

Zlatan blinks. They’re gone. He sees the crowded beach ahead, ocean the blue it was when he came here, people wearing the fashions they’re supposed to. He scratches his head twice, once on the side and once at the back. Then he grunts, turns around and heads down the ramp.

* * *

Dinner doesn’t really do anything for Zlatan except make him not hungry. He tries to be nice, be a good man, a good husband and father and do what he’s supposed to but it’s not working. Half an hour later he’s out on his ass with instructions to shape up his head before the whole vacation is ruined.

He knocks around town for a while, pretending to shop. Then he just wanders. Eventually he ends up beachside again, standing next to some of those changing stalls, one hand on the warping wood. He can’t go in the water now, not without nasty wet khakis chafing his balls afterward. It’s nearing sundown but he’s already called in, said he’s going to be out a while longer. Most people are already gone. He can see a lifeguard way down the beach checking his watch every couple of minutes.

Zlatan pushes off the stall and leans his shoulder against it. He’s got sand in his shoes. He should call in, talk about things, see if that helps. He should call about the national team. He should call Guardiola, see what the fuck with Villa and him and whatever nutcases the new president’s brought along. He keeps his phone in his pocket and takes a step towards the beach.

There’s somebody in the stall he was leaning on, rustling against the faded curtain drawn across its front. He hadn’t really heard them when he was just looking but he does now, as he slides in front and the curtain slides back and hell, it’s Maldini again. Maldini with the rawboned face and the eyes like somebody wound up Nesta and shoved him up Maldini’s ass.

Maldini blinks. He rocks back, puts his hand out to the inside wall, stops where he is. He’s got a dripping wad of swim-trunks in his other hand, hanging around chest level, and funny-looking—fine, _retro_ —shorts and loafers and shirt on. “You,” he says.

Zlatan sticks out his hand. There’s just enough space between them so that he doesn’t have to completely straighten out his arm before his palm smacks against Maldini’s chest. He shoves Maldini back into the stall and then gets in there himself. The curtain flaps on Zlatan’s back. It’s hot and stuffy and dark but there’s a bright jag of sunlight across the back, up between the shadow of the curtain rod and the top, and its point sticks in Maldini’s eye.

“ _You_ ,” Maldini says again, slapping Zlatan’s hand aside. Then he looks down, because he’s dropped the swim trunks. He hisses and jerks his head back up. “What are—get out of here.”

“Go to hell,” Zlatan says automatically. He’s looking at Maldini. It’s fucking _weird_. “You are Paolo Maldini, right?”

Maldini goes all stiff. “Why?”

He’s supposed to be charming. Zlatan always liked Nesta even when the man was marking him out of a game. He liked him because Nesta seemed like somebody with a real pulse, somebody who couldn’t help being a whiny bitch because God made him that way. You don’t blame the snake for being a snake, you can’t blame the bitch for being a bitch. But Paolo Maldini, _Paolo Maldini_ , he’s not really human these days. Half-cyborg if you believe the Milan Labs bullshit, but he’s all polish and shine and smooth smooth adoration. He just smiles and waves his hand and everybody sucks his toes, and you can’t even hate him because he’s so nice about it. Gods can’t help being gods. Can’t really _like_ them, though. So Zlatan, to be honest, doesn’t really think too much on Maldini, except for when they’ve played against each other.

“I mean, yes,” Maldini mutters. It’s hard for him. He’s pissed off and he doesn’t want to put up his chin to look Zlatan in the eye, but he does. You’d almost think he wants to say he _isn’t_. “I am.”

“Huh.” Now that Zlatan thinks about it, he’s seen this Maldini before, in some documentary or tribute montage or whatever. Sort of. Grainy old video’s not really that much like angry, sweaty, hunched-over flesh. “No kidding. You really are.”

“Yes, I am,” Maldini says, more pointedly. “Now get out.”

Zlatan grins. “Wow. Your age and already fucking privileged, aren’t you?”

Maldini’s eyes open up. He’s fucking _mad_ now.

Then he punches Zlatan.

Well, he tries to. He doesn’t have the space behind him for a swing and his elbow knocks into the wall to give Zlatan warning. It throws off his balance too, draining off even more power, and when his knuckles hit Zlatan’s chest, high on the left, it’s more like a hard nudge. 

It wouldn’t even have been that if the fucking stall was higher so Zlatan didn’t whack the back of his head into the curtain rod. Zlatan swears and stumbles forward, then slaps at Maldini’s arm because he thinks it’s coming at his face. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t, but anyway he jams Maldini into the back wall. Something hits Zlatan hard on the top of his right shoulder, and then he takes a knee in his thigh. He feels loafer sole scrape down the inside of his other leg on the way down. “Jesus! Fucking son of a bitch!”

“Get _off_ me, you whoring half-prick bastard,” Maldini says, and God knows Zlatan has _never_ heard such language pass Maldini’s sainted lips before. Yeah, yeah, “fuck” and “damn,” sure, but that’s the norm. Even Kaká went for those once in a while. But: “You goddamn son of a whore, you can eat your mother’s shit, get the hell out of my stall before I—”

“Call your daddy?” Zlatan gasps.

A blow glances off the side of his head. He’s dizzy for a second, and then he shakes it off and grabs Maldini wherever he can and lifts the man up against the wall. He feels the sudden sag of weight as Maldini’s feet leave the ground and lets go. Maldini’s head smacks Zlatan’s forearm on the way down. Then his hand is at Zlatan’s waist, maybe trying to drive stiff fingers lower, and Zlatan thinks _well, all the dirty tricks_ and yanks it off and away. Maldini’s head is still down so it’s easy enough to catch his chin in a vee of thumb and forefinger and pull it up.

“I’m going to break your legs,” Maldini rasps, glaring into Zlatan’s face. His feet are on the ground now so he could.

Zlatan doesn’t let go of anything. He just looks at angry Maldini. Angry Paolo Maldini. Oh, yeah, Maldini gets mad, tells people to watch it at corners, wants to tell the ref how it’s done. But not like this. Not like he’s really going to reach down and rip out your spine. That would be too…messy for somebody like him. It’d get all his Sweet Years stuff bloody, and not in cute little heart shapes either.

Maldini breathes hard. His Adam’s apple presses into the webbing between Zlatan’s thumb and forefinger. He twists his wrist a couple times in Zlatan’s grip. He’s got a hand around Zlatan’s forearm, the one connected to the hand holding up his chin, but he doesn’t do anything with that. “Who are you?” he asks. He breathes some more, mouth partly open, brows pinched together. “What the hell do you have with me or my father?”

“Nothing much,” Zlatan says. His arm is starting to hurt from the tension. He keeps hold of Maldini’s throat but lets his arm drop till he can brace the elbow against his torso. “Mostly I’m just wondering why it gets you so worked up.”

“ _Wondering_ —” Then Maldini turns his head and spits out something very, very impolite. He takes his hand off Zlatan’s arm and slaps Zlatan’s shoulder, kind of like slapping away a pesky kid. “It doesn’t—I just don’t—why—”

Zlatan shrugs. He honestly doesn’t know.

“I don’t need my father, all right? Stop bringing him into this,” Maldini suddenly spits out, turning back. He gets a handful of Zlatan’s shirt and this part’s familiar, the part where Maldini looks like he’s got it even though hey, Zlatan is kind of strangling him here. “What’s the matter with you, that you can’t do anything but cheap shots?”

“Hey—”

“You look like you can stand on your own,” Maldini continues, giving Zlatan the once-over. Then he tilts his head back and looks so fucking superior, just give him a halo already. “What’s your damn problem that that’s not enough? Or maybe you can’t—”

Zlatan drops his hands, puts both on Maldini’s chest and shoves him. Yeah, they’re schoolkids at the playground again. It’s just this Maldini, hell, even the Maldini Zlatan knows, like he fucking has any idea what people think is and isn’t enough for Zlatan.

Maldini steps back. Catches himself against the wall. Blinks, then kicks at Zlatan. He misses because Zlatan sidesteps and then Zlatan has Maldini smothered against the wall again, one hand already slammed to the wood. The other one got away and is jerking at Zlatan’s shoulder, but that’s an easy grab, Zlatan thinks. He’s reaching for it when Maldini tries to headbutt him.

It takes Zlatan on the side of the jaw. He stumbles, feels Maldini’s hair stick to his cheek and then lifts his head so the bridge of Maldini’s nose presses across his cheekbone. Hot puffing breath hits the corner of his mouth and he feels something harder than that, harder than another mouth and fucking Christ, is Maldini really going to bite him?

Zlatan doesn’t find out. He jerks his head around more and they’re mouth on mouth and Maldini is _not_ biting him. They’re making friendly with the back wall in this dinky little stall and Maldini’s kind of slack, like he’s shocked, and kind of hard against Zlatan’s leg, like he wants it. And sometimes Zlatan figured Nesta for that type, with the way he’s always wanting to not just yell at you about it but get all up in your fucking face, but Jesus Christ. Maldini. God of Milan. Hi.

Take your hi and cram it up your ass, says Maldini’s sudden grind of mouth and groin into Zlatan. He drags down on Zlatan’s shoulder, gets his leg halfway around Zlatan’s leg and jerks his erection up Zlatan’s thigh. Definitely harder. It’s hot as hell and Maldini’s mouth wants to crisp Zlatan up into a little black cinder.

Then it’s gone and Maldini hits Zlatan on one side only so Zlatan swivels like a mall revolving door, and Maldini’s halfway out. Except he has to turn, this one, he’s got his pretty cock-sucking lips bruised and he’s still mad and he has to turn and say something instead of just wafting out on a cloud of his own godliness. “You can talk about my father when you can talk. So far all you’ve done is pretend to.”

He’s such a _shit_ , this one. “Like what?” Zlatan snaps.

Maldini turns away. He grabs a fistful of curtain and jerks it aside, and the sunlight is blinding. Suddenly all Zlatan can see of the man is the black curve of the head and one shoulder.

“Like you’re better than him?” Zlatan says, not thinking. “I don’t fucking know, I never saw him, but you’re good enough yourself to not be a shit about it.”

The curtain’s free of Maldini’s hand. He hasn’t really jerked it aside, he’s just whipped it up. The rings are still fully spaced out and so the curtain’s swinging back in place when Maldini turns again. Zlatan just glimpses Maldini frowning before the curtain comes down.

A second later Zlatan really shoves it aside. It’s darkish out, sun a great red ball on the horizon and there’s somebody coming up the beach towards Zlatan. The lifeguard. He points to his watch and then shouts that they’re closing. Zlatan nods. He stands in the front of the stall and holds onto the curtain.

He takes a look inside before he finally goes. He doesn’t remember Maldini ever grabbing those dropped trunks but the floor’s just sand.

* * *

Something very weird is going on. It’s gotten rid of Zlatan’s bad mood and he’s tolerable to be around. He’s still kind of spacy and gets called on it plenty, but he manages to laugh it off. Maybe he’s going to have a vacation after all, in between the bizarre vintage Maldini sightings.

Everybody takes a nap in the afternoon, when it’s really too hot to do much else. Siesta, that’s the only fucking sensible thing in Spain.

Zlatan can’t sleep, of course. He leaves a note and heads out.

He goes swimming in the ocean. The waters close to the beach are too full of people so he goes further out, where the current starts to carry him along. He kind of bobs in and out of it, sometimes working with it, sometimes fighting it. Reminds him of his current club, a bit.

He doesn’t want to fail. He’s done some pretty dumb things in his life but he’s never left a club as a failure. Fuck the Italian press, they never fucking gave him enough credit at Inter. And fuck the Spanish press. At least the Italians, when they bitch, they bitch about every single club. Equality of hatred. It’s more honest than having your head stuck up just one’s ass. Sometimes Zlatan wakes up and thinks he should get himself photographed buying a Real scarf, just to twist all their noses. He really should be older than that now.

Zlatan ducks his head under the water, and when he brings it back up, he’s somewhere else. The beach is different, the color of the sand has changed. And it’s got no people on it. Just that should freak Zlatan out.

Maybe he is starting to get freaked out a little. He heads for shore and while he’s doing that he can’t help thinking that if this keeps up, it’s going to make next season really fucked up. Hell, Milan must’ve played at the Camp Nou at least once. Was he going to start seeing teenage Guardiola around the place or something? Figo back when his hair was awful?

Actually the beach isn’t empty. It figures. There’s Maldini sitting all alone, and then there he is standing, shading his eyes with one hand as he watches Zlatan wade out of the water. He’s in shorts but they’re dry, a pristine white.

“Why do you keep showing up?” he asks as soon as Zlatan gets near enough. He should be thinking this is freaky too, shouldn’t he? He doesn’t look like it. He just frowns and puts his hands on his hips. Even this young he already stands around like he’s on a fashion cover.

Zlatan stops where he is, still knee-high in water. He shrugs.

It takes a while for Maldini to get that Zlatan isn’t going to come up and have tea. He looks sort of sour about it, but eventually he kicks his sandals off and comes down into the water. His shorts are still clear of the ocean when he stops.

“Where are we?” Zlatan asks.

Maldini looks at Zlatan for a couple seconds. He runs a hand through his hair. It’s not as elegant-I’m-an-Armani-ad as Zlatan’s used to because that snarl this Maldini calls his hair catches at his fingers. “Sardinia.”

“No kidding.” Zlatan looks around. Sardinia’s nice. Nice if you like to pretend you’re a hermit with a great beach. “When you get away, you really get away.”

“What?” Then Maldini notices the lack of other people. He half-shrugs, looking uncomfortable. “Well, sometimes. It’s a good thing to do.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not like it really makes them go away,” Zlatan mutters.

Maldini takes a step forward. The water sloshes over his knee and just starts to soak into his shorts so the hem sags. More water creeps up the cloth. “Who are you?”

“I just don’t get how you got away from it,” Zlatan says instead. Exasperation suddenly wells up in him, burning like the sun on his back and head. “Nobody ever asks if you’re up to it. Even when you have a shitty game, they just say you’ll be fine—”

“Because of my name. I’m good enough, I know that. I earned it. And they know that,” Maldini snaps. “But I’d have to be. If I was somebody else’s son they wouldn’t know what they were getting and they’d wonder if they were going to get anything better.”

Zlatan shrugs again. “People like knowing what they’re going to get. Even if maybe what they don’t know they’re going to get would be better.”

Maldini inhales. Then he tries to lunge at Zlatan. It doesn’t work too well in water but Zlatan’s taken by surprise because fuck, he wasn’t really trying to piss off Maldini. Not right then. He doesn’t even know what the hell Maldini thinks he said, but anyway he jumps and sort of loses his footing and for a couple minutes they both scramble around in the surf, trying to get steady again.

“I wasn’t talking about you,” Zlatan hisses when he’s not in danger of putting his face in the water. He’s got salt up his nose and he snorts and finally has to hold the other nostril shut with a finger as he sneezes it out. Then he looks at Maldini. “Jesus, what the hell would you know anyway? You were always fine with it. Don’t bitch at me, you could’ve done something else, moved away and not tried to live up to your daddy’s name, but you didn’t. You don’t know what it’s like trying to make your own name. People can’t say that much about you because it’s your dad’s name too and they’d be saying it about him, sort of, but if you don’t have that, they think they can say whatever the fuck they want.”

“I don’t—” Then Maldini sucks back a breath. He’s wet all over, fallen in at some point, and his hair straggles in his eyes. He hunches over, holding his knees. Then he thins his mouth. He picks himself up and turns around and starts walking up the beach.

Zlatan starts after Maldini, but steps on something sharp and stumbles away. He jerks his foot up and feels at it, and it’s okay, and then he looks up to find Maldini turning on him again.

“I’m not fine with it.” Maldini’s gasping a little, like he’s got steam rising in him he’s got to get out. He gestures rudely at Zlatan. “I know I could move. But I shouldn’t have to. I should be able to get out there and have them say whatever they want, and know that they’re not thinking about my father. For any reason. I—” he runs out of breath, coughs “—you don’t know who I am.”

“Yeah. Maybe not,” Zlatan says. He’s kind of surprised when Maldini looks surprised, and then he remembers they don’t know each other yet. Anyway, if Maldini thinks he’s a shit _now_ …

…Zlatan bends over and rests his hands on his knees. He snorts, glances up at Maldini, and then forgets about the man for a moment and laughs at himself. He hasn’t done that in a long time, he thinks.

“I don’t want to leave Milan. I want to stay, and that’s all myself. It’s what I want to do,” Maldini says after a while, more quietly. When Zlatan looks up, Maldini’s standing there with his arms hanging by his side, weirdly skinny, weirdly uncertain. “I think it’s what I want to do. You know, a lot of people think they know what I should want because they knew my father.”

Zlatan pushes himself straight. He crosses over to Maldini, who doesn’t really register till Zlatan’s right there, and by then it’s a little late to keep Zlatan from knocking the man’s legs out from under him. Maldini goes down shocked, comes up furious and yet doesn’t shove Zlatan into the water. He just clenches his fists and uses them to scrape water out of his face, and then he yells at Zlatan.

“What was that for?” he wants to know.

“I don’t know,” Zlatan says. “I just wanted to do it.”

Maldini turns around and goes for the beach. He’s got a foot on dry sand when Zlatan finally gets moving, and is up to his towel when Zlatan catches up to him. Zlatan barely touches Maldini’s shoulder before the man whips around, _what the fuck now_.

“You know you can see fucking everything in those shorts when they’re wet?” Zlatan says. “Your fucking balls swinging around.”

Maldini looks down. He flushes, he fucking flat-out blushes, and then he looks up and grabs Zlatan by the back of the neck. His mouth just grazes Zlatan’s when he hooks his foot around Zlatan’s leg and puts Zlatan down onto the towel.

It’s not big enough for Zlatan. He levers one arm up on sand as he glares at Maldini’s fucking smirk. “What the hell—”

“I wanted to,” Maldini shrugs, twisting one shoulder, cocking his head, still skinny as hell but _that’s_ older. That’s teasing, letting the sun stroke his back as he flops down on top of Zlatan, one hand running up Zlatan’s side.

Zlatan lies there for a moment. He feels the sun on his forehead and Maldini’s hand against his chest, and then he puts his hands up on Maldini’s back. He moves them like ripples around the spine, then rolls them over, buries his hands in Maldini’s curls, and kisses the man. Tastes salt and burn in his mouth.

Maldini’s fine with that. He angles his leg out from under Zlatan and then shoves his hand down Zlatan’s trunks. For a while he’s kind of fishing around, having problems telling the wet cloth from Zlatan’s prick, but finally he gets hold of the right thing and helps Zlatan shrug the wrong shit off down the hips. He shivers when Zlatan palms him through his shorts, the slippery fabric sliding like silk around the round of his balls. Then he puts his hand on Zlatan’s back and tips his nails against the skin before ripping them down.

It feels like he’s drawn blood. Fucking stings from the sea-salt anyway, and Zlatan swears before he pins Maldini back into the towel. He doesn’t return the favor with the shorts, just keeps his hand on top and uses the grain of the fabric to rub Maldini into writhing beneath him. Maldini has his mouth open under Zlatan’s, his teeth nicking flesh occasionally. Once his knee bangs into Zlatan’s side. Then again and Zlatan drops to lave at Maldini’s neck so he can get his body away from the damn leg. He forgets Maldini still has his prick till Maldini twists it, like it’s some fucking door knob and yeah, does open Zlatan right up. So fucking bright on the other side, he thinks. Like it’s all new and shiny. Like nothing else is there yet.

But he’s relieved when the light goes away and this time he’s clearly still in Sardinia, Maldini slumped under him, gritty sand digging between their bodies. Honestly, Jesus, if he’d gone back what would it have been like? Somebody finding him with his hand down his shorts in a public park or something? That really would get those stupid prankster reporters bugging him in the carpark with props again.

Zlatan laughs again. The golden tapir was a lot better. Spanish journalists have a couple things to learn when it comes to that.

“What?” Maldini mutters.

“Nothing.” Zlatan pulls himself back and looks down at Maldini. Then he looks around at the beach, the sun, the sky. He still should get going. He said so himself, it wasn’t like it made things go away. And he didn’t leave unless he was winning. His idea of winning. That was himself, and all him. “I need to go.”

A little late, he thinks that’s kind of insulting and he really didn’t mean to do that this time. But Maldini doesn’t get mad. He just looks at Zlatan for a few seconds, sort of thoughtful, and he _really_ looks like himself when he does that. “Well, I’m going to stay.”

“Yeah?” Zlatan says. “Thought you said you ‘think’ you will.”

“Get off me,” Maldini says, not nastily. He pulls himself half out from under Zlatan, then looks at Zlatan again. “Well, I did think so. When I was thinking about it.”

“And you’re not now, huh.” Zlatan rolls onto his side. Then he gets onto one knee and scratches at his thigh. He pulls his trunks part-way up before realizing just how much sand has gotten in them. Fuck. “Hey, listen, not that you’re going to believe it, but I never thought you were that bad.”

_“Did you hear what that fucking punk said to you?” Sandro snarls. He hits Paolo but doesn’t realize it, he’s that worked up. “Of all the—”_

_“Oh, I don’t think he meant it,” Paolo says. He brushes some dirt off his shorts and stares down the field, at Ibrahimović. The other man flips him off and he grins._

_Sandro snorts. “You don’t think he meant it.”_

_“No,” Paolo says. On his way to make up the wall, he claps Sandro on the shoulder. “Relax. He’s young and mad, but he’ll grow up someday.”_

“Thank you,” Maldini says after a moment. He doesn’t get it, but he means it. First time he’s ever said that to Zlatan, and probably the last. It was fun, but it’s not like Zlatan’s going looking for Maldini now. Not the same man these days, and anyway Zlatan needs to get going.

He turns around to look at the ocean and things get blurry. Zlatan blinks once, twice, and then he’s treading water, facing a crowded beach. And beyond that, a line of hotels including the one they’re using this year.

For a moment Zlatan’s head hurts. It feels like it’s expanded three times its size and all the pressure is insane. But then he breathes out, and things shrink and clear, and somehow he knows he’s here for good. He blinks again, and then starts swimming back to shore.

**Author's Note:**

> Set around the time of the 2010 World Cup. Maldini reportedly summered often in Sardinia when he was younger and didn’t own a Miami beach-house.


End file.
